How Krolock Became a Vampire
by angelofnight
Summary: Self-explainatory title. Just something I jotted down. A


How Krolock Became a Vampire  
  
"It's not possible." He told himself in a low whisper, as he approached the small cottage, emerging from the forest like a raven. The cloak he wore served for protection from the elements during his many weeks of travel. There was, yet, no sign of weariness on his middle-aged face. He had longish brown hair, which he kept back, a little stub of a ponytail restrained by a blood red ribbon of velvet. Sharp brown eyes scanned the area, and then the cottage. Through a window, he could see that a light was on. "She died. That couldn't be her."  
  
He was just returning home from months of travel, searching for a fortune that had been rumored to be in the mountains. Yet while he was in the mines, he'd been sent a message of his fiancée's death. They'd apparently found her on the banks of the stream near her home, where she'd lived after her parents both died of the scarlet fever. They had not told him how it was she had died, or the state in which her body had been found. Yet he had always suspected that perhaps she'd been attacked by some wild animal, or murdered by some heartless man passing through the isolated area.  
  
Now, as he approached the little cottage in which he'd last seen his beloved Marguerite, he could hardly believe for a moment that there was a light on in the building. He'd expected to find it dark. In the weeks it had taken for him to come back home, he knew that Marguerite had already been buried for quite some time. Still, something made his heart quicken with something akin to hope. Was it possible he'd been sent false news? He wondered . . .  
  
When he opened the door, his hopes were dashed. Sitting at the table was one of his sons, from a first marriage. His mother had died giving birth to him, and he'd raised them without looking for love at all, until Marguerite moved into the cottage just two miles from the village.  
  
Of course, he must have come out to greet him home, however grim the homecoming was. He should have thought of that earlier. Had he really expected his dead bride to be sitting at that table, waiting for him with a brilliant smile? Of course he hadn't. That would have been ridiculous.  
  
His son looked up slowly, rusty colored hair falling in weak curls, like a mane, over his shoulders, and into jade green eyes. He looked exactly like his mother, God rest her soul. Pushing back the chair, he quickly stood from the table, and approached to shake his fathers' hand.  
  
"Father." He greeted cordially, trying to ignore the tears he saw in his fathers' eyes. "Did you find any gold, Father?"  
  
"I found more than gold." The man breathed. "I found a castle, far out in the mountains, which hasn't been used in decades. I believe the family must have starved to death in the cold winter."  
  
What was he talking about? Even though he was telling the truth, shouldn't he be asking about Marguerite's burial site? Would it be that painful to at least find out that she was buried, and safe in her little coffin? It had to be a little coffin, his mind reasoned. She'd been a little woman.  
  
"Father . . ." His son looked hesitant to speak. "I have some terrible news . . ."  
  
"I already know about Marguerite."  
  
"Yes." His son agreed. "You know that she died. Yet something has happened to her body."  
  
His mind reeled in dread. First he finds out that the woman he's planned to marry has died, and now he must find out that something has happened to her body? He must find out that it is not laid in sanctified ground? That had to have been it. Otherwise his son would not seem so upset. He would not be so upset about simply telling his father, at last, how she had died.  
  
"Her body?" He echoed dully. His son nodded uncertainly.  
  
"Grave robbers, father." His son whispered, his voiced filled with horror. "Her grave was found open two nights ago. They took her body, whoever the bastards were."  
  
He was not aware of anything after that, but he must have walked away from his son and out of the cottage. His grief was so overwhelming . . . he could not acknowledge the world about him. Soon he found himself standing by the stream back in the forest, some thirty yards away from his fiancée's tiny home. He was on his knees, and his body was rocking violently as his shoulders shook from the force of his sobbing.  
  
Gone. Marguerite's very body had been stolen from the earth. He could not even say good-bye to her at her gravesite. She wouldn't be there, even if the grave had been filled in again. Some perverse being had taken her from her final chance at peace! The thought made him just as furious as he was grief-stricken, and he began clawing at the earth in frenzy, his fingers starting to bleed.  
  
"Maxwell . . ."  
  
He whirled suddenly, catching himself quickly before almost falling into the chilly stream. His eyes near tripled in size, and he simply stared up at the figure looming a yard or so away.  
  
"Marguerite . . ."  
  
He was dreaming. He had to be. Either he was dreaming, or he was hallucinating. There she stood, her golden hair falling in ringlets about her angelic, young face. Yes, he remembered now how much older he was than he. His very son was the same age as her. Still, how could he have ever kept himself from loving her simply because she was so young? She'd loved him in return. Maxwell's eyes scanned her azure eyes, and long lashes. He took in her pert nose, slim cheeks, and rose-petal mouth, a darker red than he remembered, but who cared? She was standing before him in what seemed to be a bridal gown. It was somewhat tattered, and a bit stained, yet she seemed like an angel standing before him.  
  
She came closer to him, and she rushed to his feet, reaching his arms out to her as his tears came gushing down his cheeks once more. Dream or not, he had to hold this beauty in his arms. He had to feel her against him one last time, even if it wasn't real. He didn't care, one way or the other. With a small gasp, which sounded almost like a sob, she rushed into his arms, and he clutched her tightly against him. So tightly . . . She was so small. He took in the smell of her hair, which seemed filled with the wind, and some vague earthy smell. She'd been laying in short grass recently. He could recognize the smell from having lain beside her in such a manner many times before he ever left.  
  
"Dear God, Marguerite!" He wept, holding her against him just as tightly as he could, without breaking her fragile body in two. "Why did I ever leave? I should never have left your side! I'm so sorry! Marguerite!"  
  
"Max . . ." She whispered lovingly into his ear. He felt her warm breath against his ear lobe, and then a bit on his pulse. He set to kissing her throat, her ear, her cheek, and her shoulder. He kissed any scrap of flesh that was revealed to him as he stood in that position. Desperation had driven him mad. She felt so real! "Max I love you. Forgive me."  
  
"No! No!" He began quickly, starting to push her back. "I'm the one that needs to -"  
  
He was cut off by a sudden, searing pain that started in his throat, and ran all the way through his body like a bolt of lightening. Paralyzed by it, he could only gasp for breath, and cling tighter to the small woman who now held him in her grasp. No, he wasn't dreaming after all, he realized. This was very real indeed. Not only was it more than real, but it was a living nightmare. He felt as though some thick string was running through his system, and that she was yanking it painfully out of him through his throat. Soon enough, he lost consciousness.  
  
When he came back to his senses, Marguerite was gone. She was gone, and his son was lying unconscious at his side, two small puncture wounds on his throat. His own son was in his arms, half alive. How much time had passed since he saw Marguerite by the stream? He could not even hope to remember. 


End file.
